


What Pride Will Not Forget: A Collection of Solavellan Drabbles

by queenofkadara



Series: Banal'halam: Solas & Elia Lavellan [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, POV Solas, Smut, This is where Solas and Elia go to be happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-05-17 19:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkadara/pseuds/queenofkadara
Summary: Solas observes Elia Lavellan as she works. He backs her up in combat. He kisses her lips and runs his hands along the length of her slender form. Memories are heavy and harrowing, but the ones featuring her aquamarine eyes shine bright, and these are the ones the Dread Wolf will always cherish.*****************Drabbles that are too short to warrant their own works. Little random snapshots in time, probably mostly from Solas's POV.Ch1: A battlefield kiss.Ch2: Elia finds the flower crown.Ch3: Quick and poetic smut. NSFW.Ch4: Solas admires Elia's "interesting" taste in home decor.Ch5: Solas and Elia discuss the nature of godhood.Ch6: Prompt: grace, dark, holding.Ch7: Prompt: "kiss on a scar".Ch8: Prompt: twist, night, habit. NSFW.Ch9: Prompt: "Can you feel this?" NSFW.Ch10: Prompt: fill, wanted, trouble. NSFW.Ch11: Prompt: kiss in a place of insecurity.Ch12: Prompt: a kiss for luck.Ch13: Prompt: "If you cannot see it, is it really there?"Ch14: Prompt: "You are... captivating."Ch15: The Ways You Said 'I Love You'. Sad ending.





	1. Taarsidath An-Halsam

**Author's Note:**

> A kiss prompt fill from [this list,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/post/174478357863/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a) requested by my darling Kitzie. This is for prompt #42 (out of pride).

Elia pants with exertion as she flicks the hilt of her spirit blade. “Is everyone alright?” she calls. 

“Never been better!” Bull roars, and Varric waves a tired hand before sitting heavily on the ground. “Damn,” he gasps. “This girl was more vicious than that Fereldan Frostback. That was a piece of cake compared to this beast.” 

“Exactly! This was _magnificent!_ ” Bull replies. “When are we going for the next one, Boss? Tomorrow? Tonight? We can make it to the Hissing Wastes by morning if we leave right now!”

Solas ignores them and strides over to Elia’s side. He takes her face in his shaking hands. “Are _you_ all right?” he demands. His eyes flick across her body; a slash of blood crowns her shoulder from where the dragon’s tail nicked her, and she’s covered in soot and dirt, but otherwise she seems remarkably unhurt. 

“I’m fine, Solas. I promise,” she assures him. “Not bad for a mage, wouldn’t you say? Landing the killing blow on an Abyssal high dragon?” Then she sighs and winces guiltily. “I feel like I should be proud, but I think Frederic might be disappointed that she’s dead…”

“Enjoy your victory, Boss! We’ll be drinking to you tonight!” Bull bellows, and Varric chuckles as he hefts himself to his feet again. 

Solas continues to stare at her. His whole body is tight with residual anxiety. He was secretly disappointed that she didn’t specialize in rift magic - they would have had even more to talk about if she had - but he hadn’t accounted for how utterly horrifying it would be to see her running headfirst towards an enraged fire-breathing dragon with only a staff on her back and a hilt in her hand. 

He slides his fingers into her sweat-dampened hair. “You killed a dragon,” he says stupidly. It’s an obvious fact, a waste of words to even say it, but he can’t get past the strangeness of it. His Elia killed a dragon. In this blunted world, a world that’s so solid and static and staid, a Dalish mage used an ancient elvhen technique to form a blade of pure magic. She struck this legendary beast low with the power of the Fade alone. 

She smiles at him and strokes his wrist with her glowing left hand, and Solas can’t resist: he pulls her against his body and kisses her hard.

“Hahaha, _yes!_ Taarsidath an-halsam!” Bull bellows, but Solas barely hears him; Elia grips his tunic for support as he bends her back, then her tongue is thrusting into his mouth, and Solas melts into her like lyrium into a dwarven masterwork. He vaguely hears the clatter of her spirit blade hilt hitting the ground as she wraps her arms uninhibitedly around his neck. The stench of burning rocks and melted bone is acrid, but her hair is electric with the scent of lightning and her tongue is hot and smooth, and Solas is lost. The blood still pounds anxiously in his ears and his muscles are shaky with exertion, but none of that matters, for he is lost in her. 

Elia grips his neck in her hands, then finally breaks their kiss with a gasp. She leans back and grins at him, then starts to laugh. 

He smiles helplessly at her breathless mirth and admires the sweat-streaked soot smeared across her vallaslin. Battles are the kind of memory he prefers to forget, but this - the relief of victory, the joy of love, the unequivocal, unquestionable _pride_ pounding through his veins as he clutches his triumphant Dalish lover close: these are the moments he will never forget.


	2. Blossoms On Her Brow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas reacts to Elia's frivolous new "armour".

Solas holds the veilfire torch high and peers curiously around at the gloom in the hidden cave. Vivienne and the Iron Bull stand ready as well while Elia crouches beside the chest. Solas hears a soft creak as she opens the chest… then Elia snickers. 

Bull turns at the faint sound of her mirth. “What’s in the box, Boss?”

“Just a minute,” Elia says, and Solas raises one eyebrow as she putters around with the contents of the chest, then tugs surreptitiously at her cowl. She gives a tiny, subtle cough, and a smirk pulls at the corner of his lips; Elia is in a playful mood, and he has no doubt that something amusing is about to ensue.

Finally Elia rises to her feet and faces them; then, biting her lip to quell a grin, she lowers her hood. 

On her head is a crown.

A crown made of flowers.

Bull snorts with mirth and shakes his head. “Damn. How come you get first dibs on the flower crown? It would go perfectly with my eyepatch.” 

Vivienne sighs musically. “Oh, darling. You can’t wear that. Nobody will take you seriously with a flower tiara on your head. You might as well run barefoot through the streets yelling about riding a halla all the way to Halamshiral.” 

Elia smiles sweetly at Vivienne, but Solas detects the subtle bite in the Inquisitor’s words. “I don’t mind if they talk,” she says lightly. “I’d rather be known for what I do than how I look.” She shoots the tiniest sidelong glance at Vivienne’s opulent silk-and-velvet gown as she delicately readjusts the ludicrous crown on her head. 

Solas watches with a rising tide of affection as she tweaks one ivory petal, but his admiration is for deeper things than the blossoms on her brow. It’s her attitude that truly makes him stop and stare. The only thing that Elia boasts is a quiet conviction. She lacks pretension, focusing on her goals rather than her image, and her methods are so idealistic and unjaded that Solas can’t help but admire her. It’s how he once wished to operate, yet he’s forced now to do the opposite: he must occlude the things he’s done and project a completely benign persona, hiding his true goals behind a duplicitous mask.

Elia rests one hand on his forearm, pulling him from his brooding. “What do you think?” she says, and bats her eyelashes flirtatiously. Her eyes are clear and free of guile, and Solas wishes he could protect her from everything bitter in this world - even him. Particularly him. 

He gazes seriously at her. “You are beautiful,” he says softly.

A slow smile lights her face and sets her eyes aglow, and Solas is helpless to do anything but smile back. Vivienne tuts impatiently, and Bull wolf-whistles. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, Boss, but how about you two save your foreplay for later when there _aren’t_ a bunch of insane lyrium addicts around the corner?”

Elia chuckles, then gently takes the veilfire torch from Solas’s hand. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s show these Red Templars my new crown.” She shoots him a tiny wink, then leads them toward the quarry. 

Solas follows the eerie glow of the torch as she runs back up the stairs. The veilfire highlights the velvety glow of the petals on her head, and despite his melancholy, he smiles at the sight of her. 

He might be forced to hide many facets of himself, but his love for Elia Lavellan is a truth he’s free to show.


	3. All New, Faded For Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick, poetic Solavellan smut inspired by the anagram of _All New, Faded For Her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Format of this drabble inspired by one of the most beautiful pieces of smut I've ever read by [ThunderHeadFred.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510701/chapters/27500211)

_“A solid form is both shackle and strength. It affects more than you imagine.” - Solas, to a wraith in Crestwood_  
******************

She shifts in shades beneath his hands. Porcelain, ivory, the icy blue of Emprise, sunkissed and sandy-gold, the ever-changing colour of her skin as they move from moonlight to candlelight.

_Do you like that_

He traces every inch, memorizes every bruise and scrape. The marks are fleeting, not unlike the moments they spend pressed together. Sparse freckles form constellations, eternal waypoints for his curious tongue to taste.

 _Run your hands across my body_

Salt spreading over his tongue, inviting saliva to flood his eager mouth. He presses his fingers tight, feels the firmness of her flesh beneath his fingers, pebbled nipples beneath his solid palms. 

_Easy, slow down, let me look at you_

His head is often in the sky, his mind flitting over ancient ruins and broken memories. Pressed against her bed, her lips flit across his ear and fill his head with whispers. She brings him back, towers over him, her weight draped across his lap and holding him firmly to the ground.

_All I could think about was this_

She shifts in shapes beneath his hands. Curves that rival the grandest sonallia; fingers arched into dragon’s claws that scrape across his skin; angled knees and elbows and hips, a masterpiece of geometry to put the oldest dwarven thaigs to shame.

_Don’t stop_

Threads of her hair slide through his fingers, dark as a starless night. Her neck resists the press of his teeth. Sweat and sweetness and salt fill his lungs on every inhale. Tighten the fist, pull back and breathe her in: the sweetness is most intense just behind her ear.

_What are you waiting for_

Every dip and crevasse is highlighted by his gaze. He stares at the bow of her lip, the blade of her cheekbone, the notch at her throat, the shallow groove at the base of her sternum, the path it traces to her navel. He follows his gaze with fingers and tongue.

_Oh please, yes_

Smooth and soft shift to slick and slippery as he spans the rippling landscape of her skin. His lower lip is the perfect brush for this type of canvas; he strokes from the edges of her skin towards her center and uses her honeyed juices as his paint.

_Lie back, close your eyes_

He tilts his head, a flash of tongue and mouth. Coax her in a certain manner, and she sings a certain note. If he plays her just right, he can hear an entire symphony. 

_Face me, I want to see your face_

Shivering, shuddering, an earthquake against his mouth and hands. She erupts in a shower of sound and sensation and scintillating colour, vivid and vivacious, everything he failed to appreciate until she erupted into his shackled life. 

_Fuck me please I can’t wait anymore_

Hot and gripping, no hesitation, a hand on his shoulder and a hand between his legs. She presses the pillows of her breasts against his cheek, a shameless coaxing of her own. He pulls her close to his greedy mouth, soft skin and softer flesh and a pearlescent nipple against his teeth.

 _Eager, aren’t you_

Soft and breathless laughter sinks into his mind, a compulsion that numbs his eternal worries. Canvas becomes creator as she traces the planes of his body with her hands and mouth, and he tries to remember how to breathe; her lips spread a network of fine delicate fissures across his limbs, into his throat, through the backs of his eyes. 

_Now, right now, I need you_

He pulls her up and ravages her luscious mouth. This mage calls to him, summons him, pulls him from the Fade like nothing else ever could. She welcomes him, a willing host clutching him in eager arms, an intoxicating press of skin to skin.

_Harder, harder, oh yes please_

She gasps against his cheek. Fine bones of her skull beneath his fingers, soft skin beneath his palms, insistent hips pulled tight, a pleading moan against his cheek. He soaks her in, every whimper and every scratch, every drop of sweat against his tongue and every trace of heat from that sugared spot behind her ear. With every wisp of her that he takes, he leaves a piece behind. 

_Ar vara prear nasan in’na ga’man tuatha_

Electric, fizzling beneath his skin, pressure at the juncture where they meet and flex, a thrumming through his limbs, it feels like magic but so much more: solid, so solid, this is real, did anything ever have any substance before her, he can’t remember now, forgetting everything except the woman twined in his arms-

 _Right there - that’s it - yes -_

Fracturing, shattering, their pieces meld and meet, his jaw clenching so hard he hears the grinding of his teeth. He grips her nape, breathes in her lips, falls into the depths of her shining eyes.

_Everything. I want everything. I want every part of you_

The shuddering tension of her arms clutching him close. Her nose burrowing against his throat, seeking the same scent that he stole so happily from the crook of her neck. Her lips pour words into his ear, words of adoration he shouldn’t take, but her heated body is a shield deflecting the guilt he knows he should feel. He buries his face in her neck until he can’t see or breathe, can’t taste or feel or smell anything but her. He brushes his words against her skin, a fine layer of love that will crystallize and coalesce over time. 

_Lathan na, vhenan_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Elvhen phrases, made up by me courtesy of [FenxShiral's excellent resource:](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848?view_full_work=true)
> 
> \- Ar vara prear nasan in’na ga’man tuatha = I leave a piece of my soul with you every time we join  
> \- Lathan na = another way to say 'I love you'


	4. Eclectic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas admires Elia's "interesting" taste in home decor.

Solas considers the bed with a tilted head, then raises one eyebrow at Elia. “This is what you chose? Truly?”

Her smile widens as she smacks his arm lightly. “What is that remark supposed to mean?” 

Solas smirks and clasps his hands behind his back. “It is an interesting choice. An Orlesian bed? I’m surprised at you, Inquisitor.” 

Elia’s decor choices in Skyhold thus far have been… piecemeal, to say the least. Solas is fairly certain that she’s simply displaying every new banner or broken statue or gaudy tapestry she finds. He wonders idly if her _eclectic_ choices reflect her nomadic upbringing and the fact that she never had a stationary home to decorate before. But the Orlesian bed is different; it is the first furnishing that she specifically bought for herself. 

She folds her arms and tilts her chin up. “Yes,” she says confidently. “I like it. All right, I’ll admit, it was an unnecessary splurge - I should probably have bought Bull some new armour, his tassets have dents in their dents…” 

Solas shakes his head. “That is not what I mean. I am simply surprised you didn’t want something more familiar.”

She tilts her head in confusion. “What do you mean?” 

He waves a hand vaguely at the bed. “This is very… elaborate. It is not what I expected a Dalish elf to choose for her home.” 

Elia’s face clears with comprehension, then she throws him an exasperated look. “What, you think I should be sleeping in an aravel with halla prancing around just because I’m Dalish?” 

Solas smirks again at the ludicrous mental image, and Elia elbows him unceremoniously. “I picked this bed because I like it, all right? Just look at the workmanship. The carving, the gilding, the quality of the drapings? Nobles might just see this as a piece of furniture, but it’s a work of art. Yes, it’s gaudy, but it’s beautiful too in its own way. Don’t you think?” 

She gazes up at him with a hint of defiance in her expression, and he fights back an urge to kiss the petulance from her lips. He shrugs and laces his fingers behind his back instead. “I do not disagree with you,” he says.

“I think you do,” she challenges. “I know you prefer simplicity. You think this bed is too frilly. But I think it’s special. Everything in this castle is special. I like seeing the qunari throne sitting on a Rivaini carpet. I like mixing the Orzammar banners with the Dalish ones. The Fereldan and Tevinter statues are both striking, so I couldn’t pick just one set.”

Solas raises his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “You mean this decorating scheme is on purpose?” 

She shoves him playfully in the chest. “I _knew_ you didn’t like what I was doing with the decor! Luckily it’s my taste that matters.” 

“Ah, wonderful. Abuse of power. The true nature of the Inquisitor rears its vicious head,” Solas deadpans. He grins as Elia shoves him again, then lifts his hands instinctively to caress her waist as she presses herself against him with her fingers twined in his tunic. 

“Stop being facetious,” she scolds. “Don’t you see? It’s a little bit of everything from everywhere, just like the Inquisition. Sure, some of the items I’ve collected are unusual, but they’re all different and interesting. There’s a place for everything here. And everyone.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Besides, Leliana said Vivienne is having a fit at the mismatch, and that alone is worth it.”

A cheeky smile tugs at the corner of her lips, and Solas’s amusement melts into a painful affection as he studies her aquamarine eyes. She adores this world so much, her curiosity and enthusiasm spinning out to embrace everything with open arms. He still has difficulty understanding the openness of her heart; everything he’s learned about their people’s struggles over the last millennium has led him to believe she should be jaded and wary. But Elia greets everyone with the same intoxicating mixture of kindness and curiosity, and Solas knows without a doubt that she’ll protect this world and all its people to the death. 

There’s a bitter taste at the back of his tongue, but the earnestness in her turquoise eyes is sweet enough to mask it for now. He cradles her neck in his hand and sweeps a thumb along the fine line of her jaw. 

Her smile softens, and she lowers her eyes demurely before pressing herself more firmly against his front. “So. If you’re finished criticizing my style, would you care to help me break in this frilly Orlesian bed?” she purrs.

Solas chuckles softly as she raises her chin and drops a kiss against his neck. He knows this bliss can’t last forever; his duty will require a sacrifice that she won’t accept, and a day will come when she’ll face him with vitriolic defiance in her heart. But until that day comes, he’ll hold her tightly and cherish her for all her eclectic, peculiar, wonderful taste.


	5. Gods and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Elia discuss the nature of godhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A beloved line of dialogue from the game is adapted here. :)

Solas waits patiently as Elia nestles her head in his lap before continuing her tale. “As I remember it, the farmer wished to dam the river to irrigate the crops for his village. But the fisherman wanted to divert the river to supply fish for _his_ village. Each man pleaded with Fen’Harel for help, unbeknownst to the other.”

“As tends to happen with the Dread Wolf,” Solas says blandly. 

She smirks up at him with those twinkling aquamarine eyes. “Quite. So Fen’Harel went to each man’s home and whispered into the ears of their wives. To convince the women to speak to their men, you think? Ah, no. Shortly after Fen’Harel’s visit, the two wives ran away together. The fisherman and the farmer killed themselves in despair, leaving the lake untouched so Fen’Harel could gleefully splash around in it on his own.” 

_I had not yet heard that one,_ Solas thinks, but Elia’s soft chuckle pulls him from his bitterness. “The Dread Wolf seems quite the bloodthirsty matchmaker, don’t you think?” she says. “There’s the tale of the farmer and the fisherman, and the tale of the king’s daughters… Maybe Fen’Harel was a romantic at heart. Just a very, _very_ confused one.”

Solas blurts out a tiny laugh without quite meaning to. “That is an interesting perspective.” He delicately brushes a strand of her midnight bangs away from her forehead. “You do not believe in the elvhen gods, do you?”

He’s fairly certain he knows the answer; she’s made enough irreverent comments during their time together for him to be quite sure where she stands on the matter. But he’s still interested to hear her explicit thoughts.

She tucks one arms behind her head and pauses thoughtfully before responding. “Everything we do is premised on the knowledge and language that the elvhen gods gave us, or so the Keepers say. Tales of the gods are so embedded in our culture that it would seem odd if none of it was true… but honestly, I never really cared one way or the other. I didn’t lose sleep thinking about it.” She sighs. “Now, though, with Corypheus saying he wants to become a god… There are some people who would already call him one. He has enough power.”

She sits up to face him with her legs crossed on the couch. “But everyone also believes different things. There’s we Dalish, then there’s everyone who believes in the Maker, but there’s also the Tevinter Chantry versus the southern Chantry, so that’s a mess.” Her voice becomes more animated as she begins ticking points off her fingers. “The dwarves have the song of the Stone if you would call that a religion, and the Avvar have their Lady of the Skies… who can say who’s right? Maybe everyone is right. More likely, everyone is wrong. Or else there are little seeds of truth hidden in a cloud of fantasy and embellishment.” 

She trails off suddenly as though embarrassed by her enthusiasm, and Solas watches with an aching fondness as she hunches her shoulders and scratches the back of her neck. “Why do you ask?” she mutters. “What do _you_ think of the elvhen gods?”

He gathers her close with an arm around her shoulders and enjoys her comforting curves as she curls against him. He’s pleased to be able to give her the truth for once - or at least, a simplified version of it. “I believe they were real historical figures,” he says, “but as you say, embellishments of the truth. What is a god, after all? How does one define godhood? One cannot call oneself a god if one cannot clearly delineate what the title entails.” 

Elia doesn’t respond for some time, and Solas strokes her shoulder idly as he waits for her repy. Finally she speaks. “That’s an interesting point. _Very_ interesting, in fact.” She sits back and looks at him with a wicked little smirk. “There’s no way everyone would ever agree on what defines a god. Everyone would have different ideas. So by that logic… there are no gods. There can’t be.”

He gazes back at her seriously. “Exactly.”

The mischief fades from her face bit by bit as they stare at each other. The moment feels loaded and heavy, and Solas wonders if perhaps he’s said too much; Elia’s eyebrows are slowly creasing, her gaze sharpening like one of Leliana’s prized ravens. 

Suddenly she laughs. It’s a nervous sound, but a mirthful one nonetheless, and Solas’s shoulders relax as she glances up at the higher levels of the rotunda. “Maybe we should take this conversation elsewhere,” she murmurs. “Imagine if Cassandra heard us.”

“Or Vivienne,” Solas adds.

“Or Mother Giselle,” she chimes in. “Or Michel, or Loranil, or Dorian or Sera. Or anyone else in this castle, really.” She covers her mouth as she laughs again, and he admires the sight of the Inquisitor giggling as though she’s done something naughty. 

He leans in and kisses her temple, then rises from the couch. “Come, vhenan. Your quarters are a more appropriate venue for this discussion.”

She bites her lip and shoots him a playful glance as he gently helps her to her feet. “You’re being all academic and intellectual in the hopes of getting me into bed, aren’t you?”

“I _am_ academic and intellectual,” he replies innocently, then leans in close and murmurs in her ear. “Getting you into bed is an enjoyable side benefit.” 

Elia chuckles, a low and breathy sound, and Solas smiles as she twines her fingers with his. In truth, it may not be prudent for him to continue discussing this particular topic with her; she is quick and sharp, and Solas has never quite been able to fully deter her particular brand of curiosity. 

Luckily, his Dalish lover is just as interested in carnal pursuits as intellectual ones, and Solas is more than happy to keep her thusly occupied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I made up the story of the farmer and the fisherman, but the story of the king's daughter is [here (The Noble and the Dread Wolf).](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Fen%27Harel)


	6. Grace, Dark, Holding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble based on a three-word prompt on Tumblr. Thanks for the prompt, @bronzeagelove! 
> 
> The prompt: grace, dark, holding.

Elia leans her elbows on the balcony and sighs.

“Is something wrong?” Solas’s quiet voice floats out from her bedroom, followed by the man himself. His barefooted steps are silent as he comes to lean against the balcony at her side. 

She smiles up at him. “Quite the contrary, actually. I was just listening to the music.” She nods her head vaguely in the direction of Skyhold’s grounds. “Someone is playing… something. It doesn’t quite sound like a lute…” 

Solas cocks his head to listen to the delicate serenade, and Elia watches the thoughtful creasing of his brow. Then he shifts his weight and folds his arms. “Lyre, if I am not mistaken. It is a lovely duet.” 

Elia gazes at his handsome profile with a rush of affection. He always seems to have an answer, even for her unasked questions, and he rarely requires more than a few seconds to pluck the information she requests from the depths of his mind. She wonders what it must be like to have such an excellent memory. 

Eventually he meets her gaze, and his expression softens. “What are you thinking?” 

She shakes her head. “Nothing much,” she says, not wanting to gush all over him like the hopelessly besotted woman that she is. She leans affectionately against him instead. “Just that this is nice. The quiet, the music… it’s so peaceful.” She closes her eyes and smiles, savouring the fine sound of the lyre duet as it slides through the darkness of the night. “It sounds like… raindrops tinkling against metal, but fuller. Or maybe… like pearls falling against a mirror, but less strident.” She sighs, frustrated by her inability to properly put the sound into words. “That distinct resonant plucking… I just really like stringed instruments.” 

She sighs again and opens her eyes only to find Solas staring at her with such warmth that her breath catches in her throat. Without breaking her gaze, he steps back from the balcony and extends a hand to her. “Come, vhenan,” he says softly. “Dance with me.” 

She smiles and takes his hand without hesitation, and he carefully slides his arm around her, the heat of his palm settling firmly at the centre of her back. 

Slowly and carefully, he guides her in the dance. His thighs graze her own as they move, and she can feel the warmth of his chest through his tunic; he’s holding her more closely than would have been considered decorous at Halamshiral, but Elia doesn’t mind at all. 

Solas leads her smoothly around the balcony, his movements imbued with the grace of long practice, and Elia wonders at his smooth control. She’d noticed at Halamshiral how well he danced, but she’d been too exhausted to remark on it then. “Where did you learn to dance like this?” she asks. 

Without pausing in their graceful dance, he brushes his lips against her cheekbone. “I could ask you the same thing,” he murmurs. “Your dance with the Duchess was a stunning spectacle to behold. Where did a Dalish mage learn to move so beautifully?”

A tiny shiver tickles her spine at the touch of his lips on her skin, and she gives a breathless laugh. “I have no idea,” she admits. “I never learned to dance. Not like this, in any case. We had our celebrations in clan, you know, and we danced then, but that was for fun.” She pauses for a moment as Solas carefully twirls her, then pulls her back against his chest, and she lifts her chin to meet his glowing grey eyes. “I think it was a fluke,” she suggests. “The pressure, the anxiety of the moment… Maybe it came together to make me a really good dancer for that one moment. Who knows?”

Solas murmurs a quiet acknowledgement against her temple. “You are fortunate, then. That dance with Florianne was more dangerous than you realized. Facing such an unknown risk can bring a person to their knees. To master that anxiety, to channel it into strength and skill, even for a moment… That is a rare fortune indeed.” He spins her delicately, then whispers against her ear. “Of course, it helps that you have a natural dancer’s grace, ma vhenan.” 

Elia smiles dreamily. The lush satin of his voice, the cadence of his words… this is better than music. His voice loosens the tension in her muscles more thoroughly than the floating strains of the lyre. It heats her blood more warmly than the rushing rhythm of a drum. 

And then Elia realizes that his voice is, in fact, carrying music.

Solas is humming.

She inhales slowly through her parted lips, afraid he’ll stop if she mentions it, but she can’t stop herself from pressing more closely against him, wanting to soak in everything about this moment. She tucks her head beneath his chin and closes her eyes, her attention fully focused on his musical voice.

His arm tightens around her, sliding close to encircle her waist. He twines the fingers of his other hand with hers, tucking their hands close against his chest. And all the while, he continues to hum against her ear in perfect tune. 

Elia swallows hard. Her mysterious lover’s arms are holding her close, his voice gliding smoothly into her ear as their feet move with a slow and quiet grace in the dark. Their day-to-day travels are a mess of chaotic urgency and uncertainty, but in this exquisite moment of stillness, Elia can be certain of one thing.

_Ar lath ma bell’ana, Solas,_ she thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen translation, from [Fenxshiral](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848?view_full_work=true):
> 
> ar lath ma bell'ana = I love you forever.
> 
> Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if you fancy! xo


	7. Kiss On A Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for the DA Drunk Writing Circle.  
> For @elfsplaining on Tumblr. The prompt: a kiss on a scar. I'm planning to do a Blackwall one for you as well, my friend!  
> Thanks for the prompt ask! xoxo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little ficlet makes reference to a (fairly popular) headcanon/fanon that Solas started life as a spirit, then took a body to help Mythal and wore her vallaslin for a time. My understanding is that the seed of this headcanon is one particular line of dialogue with Cole, which I can’t unsee as being about Solas: “He did not want a body, but she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face.”

Soft and gentle lips drift across Solas’s cheekbone, and he smiles. 

His eyes are closed, allowing him to focus on the silken heat of Elia’s skin as his fingers drift lazily along her back. She’s slightly sticky with sweat, and he can only imagine the salt that must be meeting her lips as they brush across his cheek.

She drops a whisper of a kiss on the tip of his ear, then the corner of his eye, then the upper edge of his eyebrow. “Is this a scar?” she asks. 

“Mhmm,” he mumbles, and she chuckles softly before kissing the marred patch of skin a second time. 

Then she leans away slightly to touch the tiny dent on his forehead with the tip of a finger. “This is the only scar you have, isn’t it? I haven’t seen any others anywhere on your body.” 

Solas finally opens his eyes. Her voice is still languid from their tryst, but he recognizes the light of curiosity in her turquoise eyes. 

She’s not wrong, but he’s reluctant to confirm her question just yet. He knows his Elia, and he knows the answer will only lead to further queries. “Perhaps you have not looked hard enough,” he teases. “You may need to inspect my body more carefully next time.” He slips his fingers up along the back of her neck and into her short raven hair. 

He pulls her down to kiss her smiling lips, and his dreamy satisfaction returns when she enthusiastically returns his kiss with a firm press of lips and a gentle slide of her tongue. But then she raises herself on one elbow again. 

“I’ve seen you healing your wounds with magic. I truly can’t recall any other marks on your body,” she says. She gently strokes the mark on his forehead again. “Why keep this one?” 

Her tone is gentle and her expression sympathetic, and he knows what she’s thinking: that he’s kept this scar by choice to mark something important. 

Again, his insightful Dalish lover isn’t wrong. This mark is the only remaining evidence of the vallaslin he used to wear so long ago. But this is not a tale that he can share with her, as much as he may want to.

And there is a part of him that _wants_ to. He wishes he could tell Elia everything: the spiritual origins of his life and the reason he took a body; the eons of war he suffered and the countless comrades he lost; and above all, the truth about the Dread Wolf. 

He can’t tell her any of it, not now. He loves Elia, loves her more than he can remember loving anyone in a very, _very_ long time. But there are duties that must come before the desires of his selfish heart.

He tells her a careful version of the truth instead. “It was the result of a serious fight,” he says. “If I had lost the fight, I would have lost myself. The scar is a reminder of… sacrifice. And determination.” He sighs and closes his eyes again, suddenly feeling weary down to his bones. 

Elia’s gentle lips brush the scar again, then drift along the side of his face to arrive at his ear. “I’m sorry, Solas,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

He shakes his head, eyes still closed as he absorbs the warmth of her words. “Do not apologize, vhenan. _I_ am the one who is sorry,” he murmurs. “I… will tell you more in time.” It’s not a lie, not truly. He hopes to tell her some part of the truth someday, once he has sorted out which parts he can safely share. 

A kiss brushes across his ear, sweet and gentle as a summer breeze. “I’ll be here when you’re ready,” she tells him. “I’m right here.”

He swallows hard. “I know,” he says softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [Pikapeppa on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/), if anyone cares to drop by!


	8. Twist, Night, Habit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DA Drunk Writing Circle prompt fill for @apostatetabris on Tumblr! The 3-word prompt: twist, night, habit. 
> 
> Elvhen phrases are in the endnotes.

“Hmmm… _Elvyr’el uralas’jul, min jul. elvyr’el min._ ”

Elia jolts as Solas’s hand slides around her ribs and up over her breast. It’s pitch-dark in the bedroom, clearly still the deepest part of the night.

“Mm?” she mumbles, mostly asleep. 

He slowly shifts closer and molds his naked body against her back. His lips braise her shoulder blade, slow and firm. His thumb drifts across her nipple, and she inhales slowly as the tender peak rises to attention at his touch.

“ _Elvyr’el. Vhallal’el,_ ” he mutters. “ _Lana esh'ala dera sulrahn tundra es’var sael ventar’en tor elgar’vhenan.”_

Elia smiles sleepily, but doesn’t bother to open her eyes. Clearly he’s dreaming. She can barely decipher his words, and part of her wants to ask him what he’s dreaming about, but the main part of her mind is still buried in a languorous layer of sleep. 

His teeth against her neck, now. A sweet and gentle bite, not at all painful, like he’s simply testing the texture of her skin.

Then his hips pump against her, riding the steely rod of his late-night wood against the cleft of her bottom. 

Elia sighs with a soporific contentment as Solas slowly rubs himself against her. She and Solas are usually reserved in their affection during the day, but his barriers seem to drop late at night. He has a habit of entangling himself with her in his sleep, and Elia has forgotten what it’s like to sleep without the beloved stroke of her lover’s hands. 

Not that she’s complaining at all. Sometimes the press of his body becomes something more sensual, and sometimes it doesn’t, but either way, the result is the same: she’s wrapped in the tight embrace of his affection, and it’s more comforting than the warmest down duvet. 

This probably won’t become more than grinding tonight, though. The pillows are so cozy, and his naked body is so nice and warm, and she really is quite perfectly comfortable; Solas can keep touching her if he likes, she doesn’t mind, she’s just going to drop off again…

Solas’s hand abandons her breast to reach between his legs and adjust himself, and Elia’s lips part on an involuntary little gasp as his cock slides between her legs. 

He squeezes her breast again, then nips her shoulder blade a bit more firmly. “ _Tundrast. Himash elvar, ar eolasa._ ”

The customary smoothness of his voice is rough with sleep, and the slightly feral sound of it begins to wake her just as surely as his cock between her legs. He slides against the apex of her thighs, teasing her through the silk of her smalls, and Elia arches her spine and presses her bottom back against his groin.

Solas releases a breathy groan. His hand slides down to her belly, then his arm bands around her waist in a hard embrace. His cock is riding hard between her legs, and Elia can hear her own breathing growing harsh as she thrusts back against him.

Suddenly she finds herself flat on her back. His authoritative hand is on her hip, and his lips travel from her hipbone to her navel, sliding lower, his hot breath ghosting over the wetness she knows is pooling between her legs, and Elia twists her hips toward his face with a tremulous gasp. “Solas,” she mewls.

“Yes, Inquisitor?” he purrs in the common tongue. 

She finally opens her eyes, but she can just barely make out the silhouette of his pointed ear in the pitch-black night. “So now you’re aware of what you’re doing, are you?” she says breathlessly. 

“I am never unaware of what I do in the Fade,” he murmurs. He lowers his face and drops another kiss between her legs.

A breathtaking rush of lust ripples up through her abdomen, and she lifts her hips toward his face. “You’re not in the Fade now, my love,” she pants. 

Solas rises to his knees, then shifts between her legs. His fingers slide under the hem of her smallclothes, and his voice slides over her desire-drugged mind. “Here in this bed with you, the feeling is the same,” he replies. “It is like the darkest and most peaceful corners of the Fade, where paths trail untouched into the deepest edges of memory.” He peels her smallclothes away, then leans forward and lowers his lips to her belly.

Elia trembles as he whispers a quiet word against her skin. A moment later, a tiny shiver of green light appears at the meeting point of her body and his mouth. He sweeps his fingers over the mote of light, then gently releases it to the air. 

The tiny pinprick of light floats gently above them, a faint wavering shiver of illumination that allows Elia to see the half-smile on his handsome face. Without another word of warning, he delves his tongue into her wetness. 

Elia cries out in surprise and arches shamelessly toward his face. He feasts with a single-minded focus, his tongue lapping firmly at her swollen little nub while his lips stroke her tender folds in a gentle caress. She tries to grind toward him, to lift her hips closer to his mouth, but his hands hold her firm, forcing her to take only what he gives. 

She clenches her fists in the pillow and arches her spine, feels the ebb and flow of his tongue as it slicks across her swollen bud and down along the length of her folds, and all at once her rapture spills over her. It’s thrumming through her, pouring from the power of his tongue through the apex of her thighs and out through her limbs and rendering her blind. 

She shudders and jolts helplessly against the bed. “Solas,” she sobs. “Solas, please…”

Suddenly he’s behind her again, his hand pushing her firmly onto her side and his cock riding fast and hard between her thighs. She’s slick for him, hopelessly and utterly wet for him, and she mewls with distress as he teases her folds with his steely length. 

He angles his lips low, and she twists her bottom toward him, and - _yes, gods and spirits and demons yes_ \- he’s inside of her, pushing in and filling her so deeply she can almost feel the pleasure of him resonating in her throat. She bucks back against him, wanton and wild and no longer remotely tired, and all she wants is more more _more please Solas more_ -

He pries her legs apart, lifting her upper leg and hooking her ankle behind his knee, and the spreading of her legs only drives her lust even higher. She’s spread wide for him, exposed and open and vulnerable, but Solas’s arm is firm around her waist, and his beautiful lips are panting their pleasure against her neck. 

This, Elia realizes, is how it’s always been with him: she’s open wide, offering him her heart and her body and whatever spirit must live inside. Solas takes what she offers, and he cradles it so carefully in his strong and slender fingers, and the love he gives in return is nothing short of bliss. 

_Yes_ , she thinks, it’s bliss; that’s the feeling of his cock driving hard and deep along the deepest parts of her, his hand sliding carefully across her curves, the whimper of pleasure that bleeds from his tongue into his teeth as he bites her shoulder in his release. 

In the sweetness of their afterglow, he carefully unhooks her leg from over his own, and Elia sighs happily as she languishes in his arms. She savours his breath against her neck and the tightness of his embrace, and before she can move to rise and clean herself up, sleep begins to creep back in. 

It weighs on her eyelids and coaxes her heart to a slow and steady beat. In the last moment right before the Fade snatches her away, she feels his kiss against her neck and his voice against her ear. 

“ _On nydha,_ vhenan. I will meet you there.” 

She smiles sleepily as the dreamy darkness takes her. _I know you will,_ she thinks. She can always count on him to meet her in the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen phrases, courtesy of FenxShiral:
> 
> _Elvyr’el uralas’jul, min jul. elvyr’el min._ = The softer linen, this one. It’s softer here. 
> 
> _Elvyr’el. Vhallal’el. Lana esh'ala dera sulrahn tundra es’var sael ventar’en tor elgar’vhenan._ = Softer. More welcoming. Let them touch something gentle for their first steps from the Fade.
> 
>  _Tundrast. Himash elvar, ar eolasa._ = Gently. The transition is hard, I know. 
> 
> _On nydha_ : good night.


	9. Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Fictober 2018,](https://fictober18.tumblr.com/prompts) Day #1: "Can you feel this?" 
> 
> NSFW, naturally.

Solas tilts his head forward and releases a heavy sigh. 

Elia’s hands grow still on his shoulders. “Are you all right? I’m not going too hard, am I?” 

“No, not at all,” he reassures. “It is… perfect, actually. No need to stop.”

Her soft chuckle floats into the air, and her hands resume their kneading. “It’s all your late-night reading. You’re giving yourself a crooked neck,” she chides.

He smiles as her thumbs press a firm line from the base of his skull along his shoulders. “You are probably correct,” he admits. “But pain is a small price to pay for knowledge.” 

She chuckles again. “You are such an intractable academic,” she teases. She drops a light kiss on his neck, the runs the heels of her hands along the sides of his spine.

Solas groans happily as her palms press into the knots in his back. “You’re enabling my intractable academia with this massage,” he says. “I should continue reading late if this will be my reward.” 

He huffs a little laugh as Elia pokes him in the side. “Do you want me to continue or not?” she demands, but he can hear the laughter in her voice. 

“I apologize, Inquisitor,” he says. “Please, by all means, continue.” His tone is teasing, and Elia pokes him once more before resuming her careful kneading of his skin.

Solas sighs with satisfaction and adjusts his seat at the edge of the bed. His Dalish lover is kneeling on the bed behind him, and the feel of her knees against the back of his hips is an enjoyable pressure in itself. The nighttime silence of her bedroom is a peaceful lull, and he closes his eyes to savour the gentle working of her hands. 

Her touch really is perfect. Her fingers and her palms work in tandem, rolling against his knotted muscles and smoothing carefully along his shoulder blades. Solas breathes slow and deep, savouring the tension leaching away as her hands travel across his skin. With every pass of her palms, his glowing sense of well-being rises. It’s an almost palpable feeling - a sense of comfort, of contentment and calm and love. It’s a lovely feeling, so tangible that it’s almost got a colour: a light aquamarine blue…

Suddenly he realizes what it is that he feels. 

It’s her. It’s _Elia._

At that moment, her whisper drifts into his ear. “Can you feel this?”

“Yes,” he breathes. 

Her lips trace along the back of his neck. “You’re always using your magic on me,” she murmurs with a lilt of innuendo in her voice. “I thought I could try returning the favour.” 

“I - yes…” he stammers, unable to find a more articulate reply. Now that he’s recognized her magical touch, he’s astounded by the sheer subtlety of it. Solas is familiar with his lover’s magical signature, but the amount of control - and magical talent - that she’s exerting in order to have such a careful effect… 

He swallows hard. His sense of warm contentment remains, but it’s joined by another feeling, one that’s considerably more restless and hot. 

He shifts slightly on the edge of the bed and widens his legs to accommodate the stirring in his breeches. Of course, Elia notices. “You like it, then?” she whispers against his shoulder. 

“Unequivocally,” he rasps, and he feels her smile on his back. 

“Good,” she says. Her left palm continues to slide firmly along the length of his back, but her right hand is on the move, sliding around his waist, across his midriff, into his loose breeches…

Her turquoise magical touch trails in the wake of her hand, like a flow of affection and well-being made real. When her magic wraps around the rod of his manhood along with her fingers, he groans with pleasure and longing. 

“Elia,” he begs. He reaches behind himself to find her caressing left hand, then takes her hand and guides it up and away from his back.

She takes his cue and snakes her left arm around his neck in a firm embrace, and Solas leans back into the solidity of her bare chest. Her hand is smoothing along the length of his shaft, a sweet firm stroke made smooth by her magic, and Solas pumps his hips pleadingly toward her fist. Elia hugs him from behind, her arm around his neck and her lips on his temple, and he clutches her left arm close, presses his face against her lips, lifts his hips toward her diligently stroking hand. 

He’s utterly ensnared. This lovely Dalish mage has captured him, trapped him with her sweet and subtle magic and her gentle hands and her unequivocal love. He didn’t plan on this, didn’t plan on finding a person in this world who would _see_ him and who would help him see in return, and his fortune in finding her now… 

His breathing his harsh and deep, as deep as the pool of bliss that’s rising between his legs, and when his roiling climax finally peaks, the bitter reality of his shining fortune crashes over him in a rush that is both exquisite and excruciating at once. 

He arches his neck and releases a rapturous groan. “Elia,” he gasps. 

She steals his tremulous gasp with a kiss, and Solas threads his fingers into her short raven hair until she pulls away. “Was that good?” she murmurs.

“Ar lath ma,” he blurts gracelessly, and Elia grins. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she whispers, then graces him with another delicious kiss. 

He fervently returns her kiss, pouring every scrap of his adoration into the fullness of her lips and the line of her tongue. The love that binds them is both a blessing and a terrible curse, but in moments like this, Solas permits himself a small slice of selfishness. 

In moments like this, enfolded in the safety of his lover’s arms and wrapped in the heat of her acceptance, Solas permits himself to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) \- come scream Solavellan at me if you like! xo


	10. Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DA Drunk Writing Circle prompt fill for @kimpossibility on Tumblr! The prompt: three words - fill, wanted, trouble. 
> 
> NSFW smut. ;)

When a person’s life spans thousands of years, is memory a blessing or a curse?

Solas considers himself a being with a particularly good memory. Some elves who began as spirits would forget over time what it was to be a spirit, but Solas never had. Epitomizing a singular virtue had a certain simplicity that he sometimes misses. He knows he sometimes acts as though spirits have all the answers, but the truth is more complex; for some spirits, answers and solutions are not their concern.

This is a simplicity he sometimes longs for so badly that it hurts.

Alas, Solas’s memory is very clear about the grim but necessary path he has to walk. What did surprise him, though, was the eventual realization that there was one significant thing he _had_ forgotten.

He’d forgotten what it was to feel wanted.

Leading a rebellion was a solitary role. Centuries of being reviled as the Dread Wolf, being ridiculed by those he had once called friends, being rejected by those too afraid or indifferent to stand for what was right... It would have crushed Fen’Harel’s resolve if not for the walls he’d constructed around himself to keep the doubts at bay. 

Unfortunately, not even the sturdiest of walls could repel the chilling creep of loneliness. 

But now, Solas is not alone. Now, he travels across Thedas as part of a pack. Now he is consulted - even respected? - for his expertise in matters of magic and the Fade. 

Now, he spends every night curled in Elia Lavellan’s unequivocally welcoming embrace. 

Solas loves Elia for so many reasons. He loves her gentle manner and her sharp mind. He loves her slow and careful thoughtfulness, and he loves the speed with which she casts her spells, the crackling energy of her magic as it flees her fingertips. But her most seductive trait, the trait that lures him more than anything else, is her open-armed acceptance. Elia doesn’t want anything _from_ him. She just wants… him.

Solas knows he shouldn’t have encouraged her unequivocal love. He will only disappoint her. But the joy in her face when she looks at him is more than his ancient heart can resist. He’s allowed himself to be engulfed by the tidal wave of her affection, but he has no doubts that this is going to lead to trouble. 

He hadn’t anticipated that he would encourage _this_ particular kind of trouble, however. 

She moans softly, and he hushes her with a thumb on her lips. “Quietly, vhenan.”

“I know,” she gasps, then moans again, and Solas smiles fondly. He presses his lips to her cheekbone. “You must be quiet, or else we’ll have to stop,” he whispers. 

He braces one palm on the cool stone of the castle’s wall behind her head. Meanwhile, his other hand continues its delicate dance between her legs. They’re in the garden gazebo, a most conspicuous location indeed, but at this hour of night, the only people awake are the guards on the ramparts. And the only way the guards will spot them is if they call attention to themselves. 

Hence this little game of silence.

Solas’s finger is cocooned in Elia’s slippery heat. He touches her with a torturous tenderness, his finger stroking her swollen little pearl with long, slow caresses. 

Elia presses her hips toward his hand. “Remind me why we can’t just cast a fade cloak?” she asks, her voice soft but strained.

He presses his lips to her ear. “Where would be the fun in that?” he whispers, then trails his lips along the tendon in her neck.

“You’re terrible,” she whimpers, and Solas chuckles before silencing her with a kiss. Her fingers rise to dig into the back of his neck, her hips thrusting eagerly toward his teasing caress, and with every urgent movement of her hips, his own urgency rises in tandem, thrumming through his limbs and lifting his cock to full attention. 

Her tongue tangles with his own, her teeth a punishing little nip on his lower lip, and Solas gasps quietly against her lips. This impatience, this rush, it’s another thing he’d forgotten - a callback to his youth, to a time when his body was new and strange and so full of feeling that he needed to expel it all at once. But Solas knows his body now, and despite the clamour of lust that rises like lava in his belly, he can hold his patience for her. 

He crowds her firmly back against the wall and savours the desperate little mewl that trembles from her throat. “Take what you need, Elia,” he murmurs. “Hold back nothing but the volume of your voice.”

She releases a soft and breathy little laugh. “You,” she pants, “are such a smooth talker.” 

Solas hums with satisfaction against the juncture of her neck and shoulder. The thrusting of her hips is hard but sinuous, a hungry undulation that brings his finger more firmly against her clit. He continues to stroke her fervently, his finger slipping down along the heated length of her folds, then back up to swirl around that exquisite little bud. 

Her eyes are tightly shut, and Solas can see the rising of her rapture in the tilting of her eyebrows. He slips a second finger into her smalls to join the first, his stroking fingers framing her clit with a sweet relentless pressure.

Elia presses her lips together hard, but a sharp moan of pleasure and distress escapes her nonetheless, and Solas brushes her cheekbone with his nose. “Hush, vhenan. Quietly,” he reminds her. 

“I can’t,” she blurts, her voice tight with desperation. “Solas, please, I can’t-”

Her voice is as sharp as the edge of a knife. Solas swiftly raises one hand to her mouth, his fingers gently curving over her lips, and Elia’s reaction is instantaneous: as soon as his hand muffles her, she arches her back viciously and releases a high-pitched keen of pleasure into his palm. 

She writhes between his body and the wall, her own hand rising to press his hand more firmly against her lips, and Solas fights to control the harshness of his breathing as his lover’s cry of bliss fills his palm. Once her trembling body starts to still, he gently lifts his hand from her face. 

“Come, Inquisitor,” he whispers. “Let us go upstairs.” Elia’s rapture is like the breaking of a ward, and if Solas doesn’t whisk her away to a private place soon, he may forget why he should. 

Elia pants against his lips. Then she reaches down and tugs his hands from her trousers. She lifts his hand to her mouth, then carefully sucks her own juices from his fingers. 

A dragon’s roar of desire rushes from his scalp clear down to his toes, and his cock pulses toward her like a magnet. He’s lightheaded with lust, breathless with it, helpless to do anything but stare at the plumpness of her lips around her fingers, imagining her lips wrapping around something infinitely more enjoyable...

She smiles slowly at him, and through the blood pounding in his ears, he hears her whispered taunt. “Upstairs?” she asks. “Where would be the fun in that?”

Her smile is devilish and her aquamarine eyes are glowing with intent, and Solas’s besotted heart thrums madly in his chest. 

_This is trouble,_ he thinks. But the burning affection in his Dalish lover’s eyes is the most tempting kind of trouble he can imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [Pikapeppa on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/), if anyone fancies swinging by! xo


	11. Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for @buttsonthebeach - the prompt was: "kiss on a place of insecurity". Thank you, Beach! xo
> 
> For some reason I wrote this one in the past tense instead of present-tense like every other damn thing I've written for Solavellan. I don't know why. 

Solas became aware of her presence a moment before he heard her voice. 

“You’re still working?” 

Elia’s fingers drifted lightly across his shoulders, and he broke his gaze from his sketch to look up at her. “Yes,” he confirmed. “I will soon be finished.” He gently blew a smattering of black chalk dust from his drawing then looked up at her again, only to realize his eyes were stinging with fatigue.

“What time is it?” he asked.

She leaned her hip gently against his shoulder. “It’s past one. I was really stuck in a book until I realized you hadn’t come to bed yet.” 

Solas yawned and rubbed his face. No wonder he was so tired. He gestured to his sketch. “There is not much left to do. Would you care to keep me company while I work?” 

A beautiful smile lit her face. “Keep you awake, you mean?” she gently teased. 

He smiled faintly in return, then slid his arm around her hip and pulled her down to sit in his lap. “You do have a special talent for capturing my attention,” he replied. 

She chuckled as she settled into his lap. Solas settled his left arm loosely around her waist, then picked up his chalk and continued to draw. 

“Planning your next fresco?” she asked quietly. 

He murmured a soft affirmative. The fresco in question would capture Elia’s decision to ally with the Grey Wardens after the fiasco at Adamant Fortress. Solas still wasn’t entirely pleased with her choice, but he understood the cooperative spirit with which her decision had been made. 

She shifted slightly on his lap and rested her hands gently on the edge of the desk. As he continued to sketch, he couldn’t help but find his attention drawn to her idly resting hands. 

They were small hands, with slender fingers and neatly trimmed nails, marked with the occasional faint scar. They were humble hands, undecorated and plain, bearing no calluses of a warrior and no ink of a scholar. There was nothing particularly special about Elia’s hands, but for some reason, he found himself unable to stop looking at them. 

Finally he put aside his sketch and pulled over a fresh sheet of parchment. Elia turned her head slightly to speak to him. “You’re starting a new sketch? Now?” she asked in surprise. 

“It will be quick,” he promised. With quick, sure strokes of his chalk stylus, he began to draw her hands. He mapped out the edge of her wrist, the knuckle of her thumb, then the curved tip of the thumb itself. 

“Oh - oh no, don’t draw my hands.” Suddenly the subjects of his sketch were taken away as Elia tucked them up against her chest. “They’re awful, you can't draw my hands.” 

He pulled away slightly to look at her in surprise. “Why not?” 

She wrinkled her nose. “They’re all wrinkled and lined. The skin on my hands looks about fifty years older than the rest of my body.”

Solas gave a tiny snort of amusement. “You’ve hardly got the hands of an eighty-year-old, vhenan.”

“Well, they’re certainly not all smooth and sculpted like yours.” She ran her fingers over the back of his left hand, then interlaced her fingers with his. “Such handsome hands. Seriously, Solas, they’re as smooth as a teenager’s. What’s your secret?” she asked playfully.

_Uthenera,_ he thought with a wry twist of melancholy. “Sheer good fortune, I assure you,” he said instead. “I have never put particular thought into my hands. Dorian would be a better bet for knowing some form of skincare routine.”

Elia laughed gently. “I bet he does. And probably a good one, too.” 

Solas lifted her right hand and thoughtfully inspected it. Her hands certainly did not resemble an elder’s, but they weren’t anything special to look at either. And yet, he couldn’t help but find them captivating. 

“Elia, I would like to draw your hands,” he said softly.

She groaned. “But why? They’re so ugly. They’d make a terrible piece of art.”

“Do you think that art is intended to depict beauty and nothing else?” he said. “No, vhenan. It is the act of making a moment immortal: of capturing a memory, a thought or a dream, and interpreting it for all to see. Everything is worth being captured in this way.” 

She was silent for a long moment, and Solas idly toyed with her fingers until she sighed. “I see your point,” she admitted. “I just… I don’t know. I’ve always sort of hated what my hands look like.” She gave a self-deprecating little laugh.

He tilted her a chiding look. “You do not judge the value of anything else by appearance alone. Why should your own hands be different?” 

He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a careful kiss to her knuckles, then gazed seriously into her aquamarine eyes. “I assure you, these hands are perfect exactly as they are,” he said.

She stared back at him with her earnest jeweled gaze, then finally nodded. “All right,” she said, then untangled her fingers from his own and placed them gently on the desk. 

Solas arranged her fingers carefully, replacing them in the pose they’d held before she’d moved them away. He then continued his careful sketch. As the shapes of her thumb and fingers appeared on his parchment, he mused about why her hands compelled him so. 

They were simple hands, unadorned by jewelry and ungarnished by Dalish nail-paint, but they were the most special hands Solas had ever known. His lover’s hands held a strong and subtle magic, and this was something he admired. Her hands grasped his own with an open and easy affection, and this was something he cherished. In the privacy of her quarters, her fingers traced across his skin with a torrid kind of tenderness that he hadn’t felt in thousands of years. Her hands reached inside the cavern of his chest, sinking deep where he hadn’t thought anyone from this world could ever sink. Her hands sought and cradled his bruised and bitter heart, and slowly wiped away the shroud of ancient dust that choked him still. 

This - all of this, every trait and act of her small and slender fingers: this was what made her hands so mesmerizing. 

Soon, the sketch was complete. Solas lifted the parchment and tapped off the excess chalk dust, then settled back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “For you,” he said softly. 

She carefully lifted the parchment, and Solas watched affectionately as she lightly traced the outline of her own fingers. “This… Solas, it’s so… it’s beautiful,” she whispered. 

“ _You_ made it beautiful,” he told her. 

It was all in her hands. They were exquisite beyond compare, and Solas would love them forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone cares about my "writing process", I was inspired by quite a few things for this piece: 
> 
> \- This was a pretty heavy self-insert. My fiancé is an artist, and in the early days of our relationship I used to sit on his lap while he drew. I still do this on rare occasions, but it's harder since he mostly draws digitally and needs both hands to control his keyboard and stylus XD  
> \- Also self-insert because I think my hands are ugly and old-looking LMAO  
> \- @apostatehobolife on Tumblr has this incredible gorgeous drawing series called [Hands On The Table,](https://apostatehobolife.tumblr.com/tagged/Hands-on-the-Table) which also inspired this piece of writing. If you haven't seen this yet, PLEASE GO LOOK AT IT, I BEG YOU. It's absolutely beautiful.  
> \- Like many (most??) Solavellan fans, I headcanon Solas as having beautiful hands. See [this art](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/post/177075269499/pikapeppa-me-za-me-ro-nerdhands-update) and [this art. ](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/post/178017574308/smuttine-i-wont-tell-thats-galadrieljones)  
> \- I got weirdly caught up about what kinds of drawing tools Solas might use and I watched [this video about drawing tools from Da Vinci's time.](https://www.core77.com/posts/52037/What-Utensils-Did-Leonardo-da-Vinci-Draw-With) He used a kind of chalk called natural black chalk, which I think makes perfect sense for if Solas was doing rougher sketches.   
> \- Finally, I couldn't decide if I thought Solas is right-handed or left-handed. I went with right, since he uses his right hand to light that veilfire torch right before telling Quizzy that the orb is Elvhen, but part of my mind wants him to be left-handed - probably because I'm a lefty? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> And that's all my rambling for now! [Come join me on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if you're of a mind to chat about any of this ^_^


	12. Good Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DA Drunk Writing Circle prompt fill for @contreparry on Tumblr. The prompt: a kiss for good luck. This takes place in the Winter Palace at the start of Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts. 
> 
> Sidenote: I hate this mission. I have no chill whatsoever during timed missions. Aside from the very first time, I never play this mission without a walkthrough guide in front of me. Grrrr...

Solas keeps his head canted low as he skirts the edges of the courtyard. The Winter Palace is a feast of fine wine and gentle music, of beautiful gowns and gently twinkling fairy lights. Nobles from all over Orlais drift through the gardens, their dulcet voices a scanty veil for their poisoned words.

They ignore Solas entirely.

It’s clear that any elves present here tonight are assumed to be waitstaff or servants, and it’s an impression that Solas purposely reinforces with his cultivated deferential air. At any other time, the assumption would be galling. But tonight, it serves Elia best if he slides beneath the notice of anyone important. Drunken socialites have loose lips in the presence of their servants, and Solas might be able to learn something of use by virtue of his pointed ears. 

Despite - or perhaps because of - his anonymity, Solas is enjoying himself. Arlathan and its politics had countless faults, but one thing they’d always excelled at was throwing a party. This human masquerade is paltry compared to the grand affairs of ancient Elvhenan, but no matter the time or place, formal fêtes always have a handful of common features: the lush costumes, the posturing and the intrigue, the dancing, and the plots hidden within plots. Fen’Harel had grown weary of the backstabbing and the schemes toward the end, but here in Halamshiral, the stakes don’t feel as high. 

Perhaps it is because Solas sees the greater picture, and he knows that the outcome of this night will be of fleeting consequence in the grander scheme of things. Or perhaps it is because he knows Elia will prevent anything too atrocious from occurring. No matter what the reason, Solas is feeling quite relaxed indeed. 

_I hope I will come across some of those frilly cakes,_ he thinks idly as he watches Elia socializing with the myriad guests. The Inquisitor’s stature is proud but polite, her smile demure but her handshakes firm, and Solas thinks that some of the nobles’ gentle laughter is actually quite genuine rather than practiced or biting. 

He continues to drift along the edges of the party, separate from the festivities without being truly apart from them, his attention divided between his lover and the murmured conversations around him. Eventually Elia extricates herself from the company of the nobles and heads up the main stairs, and Solas notices something.

As she walks up the stairs, she twines her fingers together and rubs the thumb of one hand against the length of the other. She turns her head briefly, her eyes darting quickly over the garden. An instant later she is composed again, her hands loose and relaxed at her sides and her chin lifted confidently as she reaches the top of the stairs and turns to the right. 

_She is nervous,_ Solas thinks with a pang of fondness. Slowly and carefully, he makes his way up the stairs, following the path she’s taken.

The area she turned into is dim and occupied only by a couple standing at the balcony and kissing ostentatiously. Assured of their inattention, Solas slips through the one and only door in the wall.

It leads down a quiet and well-lit corridor, and Solas silently follows the hall to a small storage room. Elia is standing just inside the door, and she jumps when he enters the room. 

“Solas!” she gasps, then rests her palms against his chest and wilts with relief. “ _Fenedhis_. I’m sorry. I’m just…”

He grasps her arms reassuringly, then pulls her close and runs his hands along her back. “You are performing most admirably,” he says softly. “Truly, you are a sight to behold.”

She smiles ruefully up at him. “‘Performing’ is the right word,” she says. “I feel like an actress who could forget her lines at any second.” She slides her arms tightly around his waist and presses her cheek to his chest, and Solas feels her ribs expanding beneath his embrace as she inhales deeply. 

“I’m scared,” she whispers. “What if I slip up? Say the wrong thing, or step on someone’s foot, or insult someone by accident-” 

“Vhenan,” he interrupts gently. He runs one hand through her short dark hair, then tilts her chin up to face him. “The path you walk holds its perils. I would be concerned if you were not afraid,” he says. “But do not let your fears paralyze you. Trust your instincts. You are polite and diplomatic and an excellent negotiator, and you listen extremely well. And there is nothing these people like more than being listened to.”

She huffs out a breathy little laugh, her arms relaxing around his waist. Finally she sighs, then releases him to press her palms against his abdomen instead. “All right,” she says. “I’m ready to dive back in.” She tilts her head coyly, her aquamarine eyes twinkling with renewed good humour. “A good luck kiss, perhaps?”

He smiles back at her, then cups her face in his hands. “You do not need luck,” he tells her. “Everything you need is here.” He taps her temples with his thumbs. 

“Indulge me,” she whispers. And so he does.

Elia’s lips are soft and sweet, as rosy and restorative as a velveteen petal of embrium, and Solas enjoys the feel of her hands on his neck and her gentle tongue as it traces his lips. Finally she pulls away and strokes the angle of his jaw. 

“You’re wrong, you know,” she says. She taps her temple. “This isn’t the only thing I need.” Her smile is warm, but her eyes are serious and heavy with affection. She gently pulls him down and presses her forehead to his. “You’re always here when I need you,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

Solas closes his eyes. There’s a bittersweet pulse of affection in his chest, slightly more bitter than sweet, but it is a bite he is prepared to suffer for the exquisite taste of her love. 

“ _Ar lath ma,_ ” he whispers. Then he takes a slow and reluctant step away from her. “Now go and write history, Inquisitor.”

She grins at him, then squeezes his hand once more before slipping out of the room, and Solas waits for a long minute before following her out. 

He will not always be here for her. Their time together is finite, and Solas has always known this acrid truth. But at the end of this night, by Elia’s side is where he will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if anyone fancies stopping by!


	13. Cole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little first-person Cole POV, reflecting on Solas and Elia's relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Fictober 2018 self-prompt: “If you cannot see it, is it really there?” 
> 
> Have I ever mentioned how much I love Cole? Because I love Cole a whole heck of a lot. I wish I could be Cole sometimes, quite frankly.

Crumbs crumbling in her fingers. She offers the scone to me. “Would you like some?”

I shake my head. “Thank you. But I don’t eat.”

Elia rubs her forehead, face twisting in a smile. “Right, of course. Sorry, Cole.” She breaks off a bite, chews, smiles again. “So what’s been going on lately? Anything that I should know about?”

I look out at the courtyard. It’s harder to hear here on the ramparts. The hurts hang low, hovering over heads as they move around the hold, but it’s quieter up here. 

I answer her question. “I heard some people talking about me. ‘Just a story,’ they said. ‘The Inquisitor’s ghost makes her sound more scary than she is, but the boy doesn’t exist.’” I look at Elia. “They don’t think I’m real.” 

Concern creases her brow. “Yes, I’d heard something about that too,” she says softly. “Cole… do you ever really worry that you don’t exist?” 

I look at the courtyard again, thoughtful, thinking. “The dungeon in the Circle was dank and dark and deep with despair. I wasn’t sure then, not until Rhys saw me. But before that…” I close my eyes, memories moving close. “Alone, afraid, eyes slide past me like raindrops on the rafters. The only ones who see me are the ones whose eyes I close forever. If you cannot see it, is it really there?” 

I blink and look at Elia. She shifts a little closer, eyes serious and sad. “There are lots of things that are there even though you can’t see them,” she says.

“I know,” I reassure her. “I didn’t know it then, but I know now. Spirits hide away, shrouded and shy. They’re invisible, intangible, but alive.” 

She smiles. “You’re right. Spirits are the best example. But other things too. Like… smells! The smell of this delicious scone.” She takes another bite, sugar-sweet smile as it melts across her tongue. “Or memories,” she says. “Just because we can’t see memories doesn’t mean they aren’t real.” 

“But Solas can see memories,” I say. I give her an example, lifted from his lips this morning. “‘I saw a mural made of stone, with graven glyphs from ancient times. A dwarf stood there, his chisel raised, but regrets were ringing in his mind. One can strike the name from stone, but it cannot be struck from the heart.” I tilt my head. 

She bites her lip, tries to hide her smile, but it curls at the corners of her mouth. Rosy pink like a sunrise across her cheeks, a burst of warmth in her belly, his name like a bell in her mind: _Solas_. 

“Yes, well.” She speaks softly, smiles softly, softness in her eyes as they drop to her lap. “Solas is special. He has a talent for seeing things in the Fade. Most people can’t see memories in that way, so… so memories are a good example. What else…” She straightens up and snaps her fingers. “Feelings! Of course. We can’t see them, but they’re obviously there.” She blinks at me, eyes bright and blue and open, echoing like the sky. “That’s how you know who needs help, right?”

I nod slowly. “Feelings. Yes. That’s how I know.” Worry, hurt, fear, anger, resentment - I don’t _see_ them: I feel them. I follow them, and I soften the edges, sand the roughness away, erase what can’t be eased. She is right. 

But I don’t feel any of those things right now. The courtyard is where those hurts exist, but here on the ramparts, there’s only Elia. And what she feels is love.

 _Solas_. His name is still there, chiming in her mind. I wonder if he can hear it too? Maybe he does, because suddenly he’s here.

“Good afternoon, Inquisitor.” Solas joins us, standing next to Elia, his smile soft and sweet as the scone in her fingers. “Hello, Cole. Taking in the view?” 

“Yes,” I say. “It’s quiet and calm. There’s agony in the undercroft, but it’s lighter here, lifted free. It’s nice.”

His eyebrows lift slightly: a smile tinted with regret, so faint I almost can’t feel it above the brightness of Elia’s joy. She beams at him, chin lifted high to meet his eyes, a tickling shiver down her spine as his hand traces the length of her back. 

She is happy. And so is he. But there’s something else there: sadness in his spirit, a taint of tragedy, anchored to ancient obligations. If she dug deeper, picked and pushed, she would find it. 

But then she wouldn’t be happy. And neither would he. 

I don’t say anything. It would only hurt, and I don’t want anyone to hurt.

I sit a little bit longer. We talk about the kitchen staff and the cats and the spiders on the sill. I ask why Dorian dislikes the Iron Bull, and Elia laughs and says he doesn’t really, which is confusing. 

I watch them as they talk: her laughter reflected on his lips, his words writing warmth beneath her ribs. His thumb strokes her cheek, and she presses her hands to his chest, and I wonder if maybe Elia is wrong.

Maybe I _can_ see feelings after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless self-promotion: I wrote another first-person Cole POV reflection on Elia/Solas, [which you can read here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14224350) It is sad though, be warned.
> 
> Further shameless self-promotion: I also wrote a tiny little Cole/Lavellan romance fic (with an alternate Lavellan - NOT with Elia). [You can find that here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15217193/chapters/35293799) if interested.
> 
> Otherwise, [come and hang out with me on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if you like! xo


	14. Let's Go Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for @contreparry. The prompt was this line: "You are... captivating." 
> 
> This was also inspired by [this post on Tumblr by @dusterthedopop](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/post/181744497787/so-theres-an-option-during-the-ball-balcony-scene), and spurred forth by @irlaimsaaralath, who I believe casually requested a little fic scene about this idea.

Solas drifts along the edge of the ballroom toward the open balcony. He smoothly sets his empty glass on a nearby table, then nods graciously to a group of passing ladies.

To his surprise, their eyes widen in shock, and he hears their tittering whispers as he passes them by. “...manners from an elf! Almost like he’s a noble! How in the Maker’s name…”

Solas frowns, then belatedly realizes what has so inflamed their attention: he has accidentally discarded the subservient manner that he’d adopted for the night. His shoulders are broad and proud, and his chin is lifted high. 

He considers resuming his deferential air, then cheerfully decides against it. There is little point now; the evening’s primary goal was met, after all. The Inquisitor has secured the Orlesian throne against Corypheus’s threat and gained herself a powerful ally.

Elia’s performance was a raging success by any measure, and Solas couldn’t be more proud.

As he nears the balcony doors, Celene’s so-called arcane advisor comes wafting out. She glances at him - a passing glance, quick and dismissive and haughty - then passes him by without a word. 

A sharp bite of mistrust pierces through his cloud of contentment. Those pale yellow eyes of hers, familiar but far more arrogant than he is accustomed to… 

_Patience,_ Solas thinks; yes, patience will be key when dealing with Flemeth’s daughter. 

He turns away from her, and all thoughts of Morrigan leave his mind as his eyes fall on the slim curve of Elia’s back. She leans against the railing with her head hung low, and he can see that she is tired; the night’s events are weighing on her slender shoulders, and as he approaches her in silence, he hears her gusty sigh. 

He floats over to the balcony and rests his elbows on the railing, and Elia jumps in surprise. 

He laughs lightly as she lifts a hand to her forehead. “Solas! Mythal’s mercy, I’m sorry. You startled me.” She leans against the railing again, her pose a mirror of his own as she sinks onto her elbows and smiles. “You look happy,” she remarks. “Did you have a good time?”

“A wonderful time, yes,” he replies. “The food was excellent, and the wine was nearly as good as any I have ever had.” 

Her smile deepens, chasing away some of the worry in her face. “So I see. It looks like you’ve had quite a bit of that wine.” 

He chuckles magnanimously. “I confess that you may be right. But I have not yet told you my favourite part of the ball.”

She tilts her head curiously. “What was it?”

“It was you,” he says simply.

Elia smiles. A brilliant flush of happiness lights her cheeks as she looks away. “You sweet talker,” she murmurs. 

He places his hand on hers. “This is no idle talk, vhenan. I spent the evening watching you. I saw you sweep these nobles off their feet. The way you spoke, the way you fought, the way you moved across that floor…” He gestures vaguely to the dance floor, but his gaze is on her face.

Her face: her delicate face dappled with vallaslin, punctuated with those lovely aquamarine eyes that latch onto his own like sweet jewelled hooks sinking into his heart… 

He raises his hand and gently lifts her chin. “You are... captivating,” he whispers. Truly, this is the perfect word for how Elia makes him feel. He is captured by her, brought to earth and bound by her, more bound than he ever expected to be in this sterile world. 

He cradles her neck gently in his palm. She releases a long, slow breath, then closes her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers. “It’s been a very long night. Having to blackmail Celene and Gaspard and Briala like that…” She shakes her head, then turns back to lean on the railing once again. “I don’t like the Grand Game very much. But don’t tell Leliana I said so.”

She shoots him a wan little smile, and he leans on the balcony again. “Your secret is safe with me,” he murmurs. 

She smiles more widely, and he shamelessly admires the curl of her lips. The lingering whispers of wine are swimming nicely in his veins, and the sound of strings and flutes is calling from the ballroom, and before he can stop to think, he is pushing away from the railing and extending a hand to her. 

“Come,” he says. “Before the band stops playing. Dance with me.” 

She grins, a broad and brilliant flash of humour across her face. “Just how much wine did you have?” she asks, but she takes his hand nonetheless. 

He smirks as he pulls her close. “Not enough to fall over my own feet, one hopes.” His arm is around her waist, and her fingers are firm against his own, and then they are dancing, circling gracefully across the polished tiles, two bodies moving as one as he sweeps her across the floor. 

Elia laughs at first, an ebullient burst like the bubbles in the champagne he so enjoyed this evening. Then her laughter softens to a smile, and her smile softens to a gentle curl of contentment that sits at the very corners of her lips. 

The band is winding down, playing a ballad that is soft and sweet, and Elia presses her cheek to his chest. He is holding her close now, one arm around her waist and his other hand in her hair, and only a hint of the dance remains in their slow and subtle sway. 

She releases a long and languorous sigh, and the sound is heavy with happiness. She lifts her cheek and smiles up at him. “Let’s go home,” she whispers. 

Solas admires the calm contentment in her face. Her eyes are an invitation, and her lips are a refuge, and Solas hides within them, savouring the plumpness of her lower lip with a kiss. Her cheekbone, the corner of her eye, that tender spot on her temple where ivory skin melts into the softness of her midnight hair: he takes it all in with a tender touch of his lips, a brushing so soft and slow, as soft as the gentle breath that ghosts from her lips to the edge of his ear. 

In this moment of peace, with the stars above them and the music of the band behind, with the simple joy of Elia’s slender form encircled in his arms, it is easy to imagine that this world is all he knows. It is easy to imagine a world in which he is just a man, and Elia is just a woman, and Skyhold is not a site of ancient sacrifices and regrets, but simply the place that they will go to climb into their shared bed and rest their heads. 

It is easy to imagine such peace. It is easy, and it is wonderful. It is a life that he is not entitled to have.

He pushes the thoughts away in a fit of booze-fuelled bravado. For a few moments more, he can let himself live without regrets.

For a few moments more, Solas can pretend. 

He presses his lips to her forehead. “Yes,” he whispers. “Let us go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join me on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to squeal Solavellan with me! :)


	15. The Ways You Said "I Love You"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this prompt list,](http://mottainaiiii.tumblr.com/post/141567620340/the-way-you-said-i-love-you) which is so beautiful and kind of tells a story in itself. I basically wrote a little Solavellan story using as many prompts from this list as I could. 
> 
> Also: this is a sad ending drabble. I tried to keep the drabbles mostly happy or bittersweet in this particular fic, but this one just has a sad ending. Ir abelas...

In the year he spends with her, he says it in as many ways as he can, knowing it will never be enough. 

He says it before she fully wakes. Her breathing is deep and slow, and his mouth is muffled with sleep. But he peels his tongue from the roof of his mouth and peels the blankets away from her tousled raven hair, and he delivers the words in a hoarse whisper to her ear. 

He says it by offering her a piece of buttered toast. It’s steaming still, hot from the kitchens where he fetched it, and as Elia opens her eyes, the smile that lights her sleepy face tells him that she understands.

She lifts a cup of tea to her lips, and she gently teases that she’ll keep it as far away from him as possible. He smirks at her silliness as she leans toward him. Her lips are scented with tea, and he detests the stuff, but he kisses her anyway. He savours the pungent herbal taste of her tongue for one reason alone: that the tongue he is tasting belongs to her.

He says it by coming with her to the Herald’s Rest. It is unwise for him to come, to bind himself to the people of this world more than he has already foolishly done. But as Elia hands him a small glass of Antivan port to accompany her stein of Dwarven ale, he tells himself that joining her here is the least he can do.

He says it on the battlements. Her eyes are narrowed against the biting mountain breeze, but the afternoon sun gleams in shards and rays through the clouds. It lands on her midnight hair and ignites the ivory of her skin to a faintly golden gleam. She glows in the sun, and she makes _him_ glow in a way he didn’t think would ever be possible here. So he tips her chin up, and he admires her aquamarine eyes, and he tells her.

She smiles, a smile so broad and soft and warm that it hurts. “I love you too, Solas,” she whispers.

He says it when she offers _him_ a piece of buttered toast, accompanied by a hearty bowl of stew. It is late, and his mind is mired in the pile of tomes he requested from the library. When Elia sets the tray on his desk, he nearly jumps out of his chair in surprise. 

But the stew is hot and savoury. The toast is burnt on one corner, but delicious nonetheless. After he scrapes the last dregs of food from his bowl, he takes her hand and presses it to his well-fed lips. He kisses her knuckles one by one, then the inside of her wrist, and he whispers his adoration against her skin.

He says it to Cole one afternoon when Elia is away on business with Josephine. He and Cole are strolling around the castle discussing life and death and everything in between. They slow down as they pass Bonnie Sims’s stall, and Solas spots a scarf the exact shade of Elia’s aquamarine eyes. 

Cole drifts ethereally at his shoulder. “Bright and blue, brilliant like a gem, bringing you joy. Youthful, jarring, more than you expected. You didn’t know. You didn’t see.”

He nods and turns away from the Orlesian merchant. “You are correct,” he murmurs softly to Cole, knowing that the merchant cannot see. “She has surprised me at every turn.”

Cole trails after him toward the stairs. “Do you see it now?”

He hesitates before responding. Compassion asks these questions out of curiosity and kindness, but the answers he seeks are too complex. Solas gives him an easier reply instead. “I love her,” he says.

Cole nods. “I know,” he says, and Solas smiles.

When Elia returns, he says it to her that night. Their fingers twine and press into the mattress, and her body bucks to meet his hips. The rapture leaves her throat in a pleading cry, and he buries his face in her neck and his teeth in her skin, and he breathes the words against her sweat-laced skin with a shuddering gasp.

He says it with a look as they lie in the grass of the Emerald Graves. It is dark and late, and the weather is warm and mild with the freshness of spring, and he studies her profile as she studies the stars. She turns her head, and her glowing elven eyes latch onto his. He stares at her and memorizes the catlike glow of her gaze. Elia doesn’t smile, and neither does he, but in the beating of his heart and the tightness of her slender fingers between his own, he knows she feels the same.

He leaves it for her in a letter on her pillow. The morning after they return from Adamant Fortress, he wakes before the crack of dawn, restless with inspiration and a need to paint. Elia is fast asleep, exhausted from the battle and the burden of her duties, so he slides soundlessly from her bed and pads over to her desk.

He takes a plume and ink, and he writes that he will be in the rotunda for the rest of the day. At the end, almost as an afterthought, he scrawls the words. They come easily to his hand, as easily as breathing or eating or casting a simple spell. He folds the note and tenderly places it beside her head, his attention already back on the fresco that is painting itself in his mind’s eye.

In the noisy bustle of Halamshiral, he whispers it softly in her ear: words of encouragement and faith and confidence. In the muted silence of a dream they share, he stands at the top of a bridge and he shouts it at down at her: a proclamation of his heart’s devotion, even if he can devote nothing else to her. She laughs at him in the dream, and she shouts it back, and the happiness that spreads across his face is something he never thought he would feel again.

He says it softly through the thundering tattoo of rain on the oiled fabric of the tent they share. She clasps his face in her hands, sweat dripping down her nose like the raindrops that trickle down the sides of their tiny tent. She gasps and moves over him and lies flush to his naked chest until there is no space left between them, and he whispers it to her pointed ear, whispers it mindlessly and repeatedly until it is just a liquid blur of syllables: _ar lath ma, vhenan - ar lath ma, I love you Elia, I love you, please…_

She nods and she breathes it back against his lips, and as they lie together in the heated and humid aftermath, sleep slipping through the fabric of their tent to snatch them away, he whispers it to her cheekbone in a blissful sigh.

Months go by, and he tells her every day in a multitude of ways: with words and kisses and tender looks, with fingers on the back of her spine and his quiet voice in her ear. And eventually, with a boldness born of these words that he tells her every day, he prepares himself to tell Elia everything. 

He takes her to a place of magic and beauty, and he opens his mouth to bear his deepest truth. But as he stares into her vallaslin-painted face, he realizes the weakness of his besotted heart.

He is selfish, and he always has been. He loves her, but in so doing, he has made himself incapable of letting her see what he must do. 

Elia is the Inquisitor. She has fought tooth and nail for this world, and she will revile anyone who would dare to take that world away. 

And so, instead of telling her, he breaks her heart. 

Her beautiful face twists with an anger that is a feeble veneer for grief. A sob leaves her throat, and she shoves his chest and shouts at him to tell her she means nothing to him. 

“I can’t do that,” he says brokenly. When this all began, he swore to never lie to her, and he has been so careful to stick to his promise. The truth she now dares him to disavow - that he loves her, and that he cares: this is a confession he cannot retract. It is the truth, and he realizes now, far too late, that it is the only one he can openly share. 

By refusing to deny his love, he says it again. But Elia no longer believes him.

In the weeks that come, Elia crumbles slowly from the inside, and he forces himself to watch. Her pain is sharp and constant, and he is powerless to take it away. By bearing witness to her grief, by sharing it in silence and taking the rightful blame, he tells her again and again. But his telling his silent and distant now, and she cannot hear him anymore.

Something has grown dim inside of her. Something has been extinguished, and with a growing surge of regret, he realizes what he has done. By breaking her heart without explaining why, he has torn the tapestry of the life she was weaving over the past year. She holds the threads in bewilderment, and she begs him to mend them, and all he can tell her now is that he can’t. 

“Please,” she says. “Talk to me, Solas. That’s all I want.” 

He studies the naked desperation in her face. He knows what she really wants. She wants _him_ , everything they had and everything she thought they would have forever. She wants everything he promised her with those loaded words that he told her over and over as he brought her toast and kissed her lips and left letters on her pillow and walked with her in dreams. 

She wants him to say he loves her, and she wants to believe it. But by breaking her heart without telling her why, he has broken something inside of her, and he is no longer sure that anything he says can fix the damage he has wrought. 

As things turn out, he never gets the chance to try.

He holds the broken orb in his hands, and he lifts his eyes to her face. Despite everything he has done and everything he has ruined between them, her expression is sympathetic and soft. 

Despair wrenches his chest, twisting and pulling at his composure. Before he can stop himself, he says it. 

He meets her aquamarine eyes: bright and blue, brilliant like a gem and bringing him joy that he shattered as thoroughly as the orb that lies in pieces on the ground. He stares into those beloved eyes, and he says it one last time. 

“No matter what comes,” he says, “I want you to know that what we had was real.” 

Her dirt-streaked face goes slack, eyebrows creasing with distress, and he knows that she understands: he is saying goodbye. 

Cassandra calls her name, and when she goes to check on the others, he steps into the Fade. He moves farther and farther away from her, placing distance between them so that she cannot follow, but his chest is heavy where he carries her. 

She is no longer here to hear it, but he says it still. He says it by carrying this wound in his chest. Elia coaxed her way into his heart and made herself a home, and he pushed her out. Now all he has is a gaping hole where Elia used to be. 

He will carry this wound, and he will cherish its torn and tattered edges. And this is how he will say it. 

For the rest of his unending life, this is how Solas will say he loves her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I am Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) for anyone who wants to cry Solavellan at me. xo


End file.
